


it can only shift the stone

by ascience



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, FC Bayern München, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-19 13:43:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8210681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascience/pseuds/ascience
Summary: Even ignoring the snide remarks about Bayern buying powers instead of building football talent, Philipp can’t help wondering whatever more than the simple positional explanation might be to Xabi Alonso's transfer.(AU - Football players with superpowers)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raumdeuter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】it can only shift the stone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8386711) by [Elf11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elf11/pseuds/Elf11)



Xabi doesn’t come across as an enigma.

Philipp meets the guy and, although he’s always considered himself good at reading people, thinks he can see right through him.

After all, at first glance, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of things holding Xabi together despite football and looks that fit in glossy espresso commercials.

Philipp doesn’t recognise anything Real Madrid in him where he doesn’t want to see it and only finds Liverpool when he knows what he’s looking for. Philipp imagines Xabi shedding jerseys like scaly skin, and misses how some things get buried inside Xabi as well. How probably no one is born falling out of a GQ magazine and how Xabi is more than a little enigmatic by choice.

And, of course, there’s the thing with the powers.

\--

Pep doesn’t buy players for nothing, that much is obvious.

With Thiago and Bastian injured, there are some midfield vacancies, and Philipp is actually glad that Pep doesn’t simply pull him out there to fill them and gets Alonso instead.

But even ignoring the snide remarks about Bayern buying powers instead of building football talent, Philipp can’t help wondering whatever more than the simple positional explanation might be to the transfer.

He’s the captain so he needs to know his teammates and their abilities well, and he pretends that’s a good enough reason to scroll through the rumours that are spread in the newspapers after Alonso’s over-night transfer.

 _Power Pep buys Power Player,_ is one headline; _The Omnilingual that FC Bayern needs?_ , is the next.

Xabi’s player profiles are secretive about his powers or lack thereof, and digging deeper doesn’t get Philipp past the assumptions and theories either. Some texts cite their sources, wildly varying from mind control to healing, none confirmed by Xabi or his management. Or even Philipp’s own observations.

Philipp respects that, like-minded. Emotion manipulation is not an attention-getting power either when used right - and Philipp uses it right.

“What are you mulling over?” Thomas asks, interrupting the reading time by leaning across the table and letting his wet hair drip over the paper. Enough energy for an individual session after team training, but not enough to dry off after showering - figures.

“Transfer news,” Philipp replies and puts an article aside that’s soberly titled, _Servus Xabi_.

“Oh! Anything about me?”

“Yeah, I heard you’re joining 1860,” Philipp snorts and kicks out the opposite chair for Thomas. “As if.”

Thomas laughs as he drops down in the seat. He starts stretching the joints in his hand, and Philipp has to look away, because Thomas’ elastic bones still make him cringe after all this time.

“Let me guess: Xabier Alonso,” Thomas says.

Philipp refrains from pointing out that that wasn’t a hard guess with the page of the newspaper open in front of him.

“There’s no information on what he can do,” he replies and gestures at the printed photo of Alonso.

“His passing is great.”

Philipp rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Can’t he do telekinesis or something? Thought I saw him do that once. Pep must know.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Maybe passing _is_ his power.”

Philipp laughs, but he can’t just let it go. Thomas can probably read that in the reappearing frown on his face.

“Maybe he doesn’t have one. Is this some revenge thing?” Thomas asks, squinting. “You two are gonna have a blast chatting about days gone by.”

“It’s some captain thing, thanks,” Philipp replies and kicks against Thomas’ wobbly shin. That excuse always works like a charm, and it’s never been a complete lie.

After all, the revenge had been the World Cup this year already, and now it seems that it was time to pull together.

Meeting Alonso doesn’t quite go as Philipp expected it to go, but it goes as he should have it expected it to go.

“Alonso,” Philipp greets him and automatically squares his shoulders. Alonso is wearing his kit already, like it’s Tom Ford and not Adidas and like he’s never worn a different one before.

“Call me Xabi,“ Xabi says and adds, “We meet again,” with a crooked grin, in English.

Philipp raises his eyebrows and takes the hand he is offered. Naturally he remembers all the old history, the pain somewhat insignificant with the World Cup in his hands, but he didn’t except Xabi to act like a cartoon villain about it.

“I’m looking forward to working with you,” Philipp says and realises with a start that it’s not a only polite phrase, but that he’s feeling an unusual excitement to try and mould Xabi into something for Bayern.

“It’s a pleasure getting to play at the biggest club in the world,” Xabi shoots back, and Philipp is impressed by how easy Xabi brings that statement home with a charming smile and a melodic voice, like he’s ready to fool himself. Of course the journalists eat that right up, salivating over such a quote from someone who played for Real not too long ago.

Philipp widens his smile a little for the cameras and thinks that perhaps Xabi’s feigned loyalty as a switch for Toni’s dry valuation is something he can work with. He feels into the room’s emotions, but realises he doesn’t have to manipulate much.

Xabi’s done his work there alone.

No one asks Xabi anything about his powers, which is not unusual, but it irks Philipp, because it means he’s going to have to bring it up.

He catches Xabi behind a sponsors wall after the tenth _Mia san Mia_ rolled off Xabi’s tongue, and decides to confront him directly.

“What’s your power?” Philipp asks right away. “I’m pretty sure you have one.”

Xabi almost looks mournful for a second, before the moment passes and he shakes his head.

“Nothing that will help us win the Champions League,” he replies, which is as good of a not-answer as he could give.

A week ago Philipp might have brushed it off as an arrogant phrase about a listed power, but now - with Xabi standing in front of him - it only makes Philipp want to find out. Whatever Xabi isn’t telling.

Someone pulls Xabi away from behind the screen to give another interview, so Philipp doesn’t get the chance to ask on, but, no problem, he’ll have plenty of time to find out.

Except Xabi dodges any and all questions about it with meaningful, ambigous answers, and even in training, when Mario is fooling around by turning invisible and back, Xabi just stands by, laughing knowingly but never offering an inch.

Xabi doesn’t pull any sensational tricks when they would have needed them against Barcelona, and when Philipp tries to question Pep about it, the answers includes the word _possession_ seven times and the word _power_ not once.

Philipp is too proud to be clingy and to run after Xabi all the time, especially regarding something that he feels is his right to know, but the nagging thought is always at the back of his head.

Even drunk after the Meisterfeier Xabi tells Philipp not to worry his, quote, pretty little head, unquote, and Thomas tells him to take off the frown, which amounts to the same thing.

“This is the best night of my life,” Xabi says in surprisingly unslurred German, his hand above Philipp’s knee, and it’s the worst lie ever. Philipp pretends to believe it, like he pretends to believe Xabi left Liverpool with a clean cut, pretends to believe Xabi’s flirting is aimed at him and not something that Xabi forgets to turn off now and then.

The next season Bastian leaves (Philipp doesn’t ask Xabi whether he knows what _Fußballgott_ means), and Philipp still hasn’t found out.

Sometimes Philipp thinks he’s catching Xabi performing a power. Once he thought he saw sparks between Xabi’s fingers after Thiago created a ball of fire to juggle, another time he imagined a presence in his head like when Jerome reads his mind. But it never _fits_ , and it’s so random that it can’t have been more than tricks played on Philipp’s eyes.

Philipp tensely focuses on power performance on the pitch, and Xabi plays his most beautiful passes in front of him, takes his crosses like a machine. But there’s never anything beyond football, and then Philipp realises that Xabi isn’t just a game piece, but a player next to him, too.

Perhaps it is part of the reason why he’s frustrated when Robert blatantly stuns the whole world with his power.

“Did you think for a second before doing that?”

Robert rolls his eyes as he wipes the sweat off his chest with his jersey.

“Ignore it when Thomas does it, but when I have a little fun, you get all dictator,” he sighs. “It was a one time thing, I promise. You’d rather have lost?”

“You scored five goals in nine minutes,” Philipp hisses. “Thomas works with the space he’s got, you create your space with a goddamn bulldozer. There’s a difference.”

“Ain’t illegal, is it?” Robert leers and throws his arm around Xabi, who was obviously trying to squeeze past their conversation and avoid any involvement with the discussion. Philipp exchanges a look with Xabi, but Xabi’s expression is unreadable except for the faint amusement he always seems to direct at Philipp.

“You pull that again, they’re going to make it illegal, don’t worry,” Philipp says firmly. “It’s pure luck your power isn’t listed yet.”

“Luck… or an improbable coincidence, huh?”

Robert winks badly with both eyes, and Philipp can only shake his head over the shameless statement. It’s not how Robert’s power works and the realms in which he can manipulate probabilities are limited, but Philipp’s point still stands.

“I like a sensation as much as the next guy,” Philipp admits and doesn’t add, _when it’s in favour of Bayern_ , “But don’t get cocky.”

He makes sure to make Robert feel a tinge of shame as emphasis and sends him off into the dressing room where the others are waiting for him to celebrate.

“Don’t you think it’s over the top?” Philipp asks, turning to Xabi who had kept silent so far.

Xabi scratches his beard, holding Philipp’s gaze like he can see right through the pretense of the question.

“You worry too much,” he simply says and shrugs.

“Would you use your power like that?”

Xabi laughs at the badly hidden loaded question, and then the phone in Xabi’s pocket starts buzzing.

“Oh, sorry, what’s the chance,” Xabi says slowly, like delivering the punchline of a joke, and lightly pats Philipp’s shoulder. “I have to take that call.”

It’s an… improbable coincidence, as Robert phrased it. However, by now Philipp knows that things were neither that easy nor that straightforward with Xabi. To hell with first impressions, no matter how good Philipp thinks he can read people.

If he was really that good at it, it might not have surprised him that when he finally asks Xabi for a serious conversation in private, Xabi invites him to his house without a pause.

He’s too startled to decline.

As Xabi shows him through the door, the first thing Philipp sees is a painfully unread copy of the book he wrote displayed on Xabi’s dresser in the hallway.

So that’s the game they’re going to play. It’s fine with Philipp.

Xabi leads him to a tasteful seating arrangement in his living room, and they both sit down, Xabi sprawling his legs across the carpet.

“You know what I want,” Philipp says unceremoniously, and Xabi smirks.

“You haven’t been casual about it, exactly.”

“So?” Philipp replies defensively. “Are you ever going to tell me?”

Xabi bites his lip, and Philipp watches his teeth slide over his skin. Some things Philipp doesn’t allow himself to think.

“What do you want to drink?” Xabi asks then, out of the blue, and doesn’t wait for an answer to get up and open the fridge in the kitchenette across the room.

“Why am I here if you don’t plan on telling me?” Philipp presses on. When Xabi halts in his movements for just a split second, Philipp regrets asking with the naivety of someone who agreed to ‘come upstairs for a drink’.

“It’s unfair, is it not,” Xabi replies, “if you request to see my power, but won’t offer yours.”

“What, I show you mine, you show me yours?” Philipp asks, arching an eyebrow.

He can see Xabi smile to himself as he pops open the crown caps of two bottles of beer.

It’s the sort of thing that defines Xabi, Philipp thinks. To have cold _Paulaner_ beer in his fridge for any visitor that might come around and to then open it with a sleek black designer bottle opener, so forced in putting on a casual show of loyalty.

It thrills Philipp to see Xabi do it, even when it’s just the two of them together. Like Xabi is pandering to _him_ , independently of the club. Or maybe because Xabi knows Philipp is as much of the club as a person can be.

“I’ve already seen you use yours,” Xabi says nonchalantly as he hands Philipp the bottle, and suddenly Philipp isn’t all that comfortable with the penis metaphor anymore.

“I’m pretty sure you haven’t,” he replies.

He’s careful about displaying his ability, and emotion manipulation is not a very flashy process, so he assumes Xabi is bluffing, even though he seems confident as he sits back down on the couch across from Philipp.

Also, Philipp’s learnt quickly to replicate the effects of his power without actually making use of it. After all, people like to be told what to feel, whichever way, and Philipp is happy to lead people to do their emotional labour for him. Michael, for example, loved to take the bait Philipp handed him in press conferences.

Xabi leans back into the cushions that are of a colour that Philipp would describe as dark red and that Xabi probably knew to order under a name like burgundy or oxblood.

“The penalty,” he says with a triumphant glint in his eyes.

Philipp is impressed. It’s not the first time Xabi was there when he had used his power, but it’s not a situation he expected Xabi to name. It hadn’t been manipulation as much as pushing the referee towards the fair decision. His sliding tackle had been clean as glass, and that’s the story Philipp would die by.

“Fine,” he concedes, “So you’ve seen me use mine. What about you? Don’t you trust me?”

It’s a low thing to call out between the two of them, pointless and all smoke and mirrors, but it seems to move something inside of Xabi.

Xabi breathes out in a dry laugh, puts his beer bottle aside and moves to kneel on the carpet in front of Philipp. He puts his hand on Philipp’s shoulder and squeezes it, but not tightly, and pushes his thumb out so that it only just touches the bare skin on Philipp’s neck.

At first, nothing apparent happens. Philipp expects the ground to shake, to feel a presence in his head, Xabi to turn invisible, anything.

Philipp’s seen many young players come through youth academies with the strangest talents, super or not. There aren’t a lot of powers that could throw him off the way this delay of demonstration does.

Xabi keeps looking at him, patient but in concentration, and then suddenly he pulls Philipp towards him and firmly presses his lips on Philipp’s.

Philipp freezes, mind empty for a second and then sluggishly dragging on. It’s… interesting. He tries to weigh the situation in his head, but surprisingly his analytical mind seems to have taken a knock.

Still he know that pulling away would mean admitting that Xabi was ahead of him in this thing, this game they’re playing so… Philipp doesn’t.

Xabi softly moves his mouth against Philipp’s and a warmth starts spreading from his lips. It increases to the point where it’s almost a burning heat, and just before it would have been unbereable, Xabi draws his head away.

 _Thermal manipulation_ , Philipp is about to say, a clear thought through the confusion.

He’s a little baffled about how long it took for Xabi to display it and that it takes, of all things, a kiss. After all the build-up, it’s underwhelming, and it neither explains the secrecy and, to be honest, nor what Philipp had ever viewed Xabi like.

But Philipp can’t even get the words out before he feels a sudden drag in his stomach and a wave of fear wash over him out of nowhere. His body can hardly react by quickening his heart rate before the fear vanishes and is replaced with an intense anger that Philipp can’t direct at anything.

The change is quicker then - glee, exhaustion, sadness, arousal - throwing Philipp through a storm of emotion.

He’s caught until Xabi takes hold of his hand, spreads the warmth again and cuts the link between them.

Philipp has never been the target of his own ability before, but he recognizes it immediately.

Xabi doesn’t have the experience to bring about the manipulation slowly, so it had felt like someone pulling levers in his head. Not thermal manipulation after all.

Philipp grips Xabi’s hand tighter to steady himself. To lose control like this should frighten him, but in this situation he almost feels delightfully exposed.

“Alright?” Xabi asks.

Philipp nods slowly. Under Xabi’s pleased smirk, he opens and closes his hand, testing his power. It’s all as it was before, and he can still visualize the threads of emotion coming from Xabi, ready for him to tug on.

“So. Mimicry,” Philipp states and he can’t quite keep the appreciaton out of his voice as he looks at Xabi. Revisiting the past months, Philipp can recall the moments when Xabi had stolen, borrowed, copied, _whatever_ , someone else’s power like a thread along Philipp’s attempts to see through him.

Xabi shrugs like he’s shaking off the remnants of Philipp’s power.

“And you,” Philipp clears his throat, not ready for the implications of this sentence, “you need to kiss someone to do it.”

Xabi takes his time to get up from his knees, dusting off his pants in a complicated motion. He drinks a swig from his beer bottle and puts it back on the couch table before he answers.

“No.”

“...Pardon?”

“Any skin contact is fine.”

Philipp holds Xabi’s gaze for an awkwardly long time and he knows Xabi is challenging him to say something, which is exactly why he won’t. Maybe it’s immature, but Philipp is just balancing levels here.

Xabi cocks his head and licks his lips slowly, never breaking the eye contact either.

“Stop,” Philipp finally gives in, looking away because he can feel his ears turn red.

“I’m not doing anything,” Xabi says slyly and holds his hands up in mock-defence.

“Not with your power, no.”

Philipp presses his fingers to his temple, closes his eyes and tries to collect himself. He can still feel the kiss linger like a bruise.

“You said your power couldn’t help us win the Champions League, that’s not exactly-” Philipp starts, but Xabi interrupts him with a long-drawn sigh.

“Not everything is business,” Xabi replies, which is fair if you play for the name on the back as much as for the badge on your chest.

Philipp has many questions he’d like answered now. How did Xabi find out? Was the kiss part of the game? If no one is there to hear Xabi praise Bayern, does Philipp still get a pleasant shiver down his back? How long until America calls Xabi not-home? In Xabi’s story, does it matter that Gerrard doesn’t have a power?

Philipp asks instead, “Is this a good idea?”, colder and still the unspoken request for the chance of _more_.

“You’re not objecting. And I trust your judgement.”

Philipp quirks his eyebrow but takes it for the simultaneous stab and compliment it is.

“Just a year, querido,” Xabi says, and Philipp doesn’t know whether it’s a promise or an apology, but it doesn’t matter. This is the Xabi he gotten to know, the Xabi who counts his time in contracts.

“Never call me that again.”

“Of course,” Xabi nods, slightly smirking, and Philipp doesn’t have to be able to read thoughts to hear the silent _querido_ tacked on.

In reply, Philipp wordlessly sends a feeling of affection across, so tentative and foreign that Xabi won’t mistake it for his own.

**Author's Note:**

> _That the storm can’t grind the mountain down, it can only shift the stones._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Dear recip, I hope that I could do your request justice and that you had a fun read!
> 
> Big thanks to Mercy and Sabs, the eyebrows to my Philipp Lahm.
> 
> [tumblr](http://lahmly.tumblr.com/) // [twitter](https://twitter.com/kissthecrest) // [hell](http://66.media.tumblr.com/7e820039544f7aaeec0df59ce1c815bc/tumblr_o1dk6ocSFw1s1rzito2_400.gif) (full info to be added after the reveal)


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